p— 


YHTSOa  YHAHCmaTWOD 
0H33M  SHT  30 


MIJH3H  .T  THSaOfl  YE 
siuiilsal  simg-riV 


J' 


BY  ROBERT  T.  KERLIN 
Head  of  the  English  Department,  Virginia  Military  Institute 


Id  W) 

Awier, 

Heroes 

CONTEMPORARY 


OF  THE  NEGRO* 


A poet  of  our  day  sings,  optimistically: 


I will  suppose  that  fate  is  just, 

I will  suppose  that  grief  is  wise, 

And  I will  tread  what  path  I must 
To  enter  Paradise. 

— Joseph  S.  Cotter,  Sr. 


Another  sings: 


We  have  fashioned  laughter 
Out  of  tears  and  pain, 

But  the  moment  after — 
Pain  and  tears  again. 


— Charles  Bertram  Johnson 


And  yet  another,  as  from  a broken  heart,  sings  sadly  and 
sweetly : 

The  dreams  of  the  dreamer 
Are  life-drops  that  pass 
The  break  in  the  heart 
To  the  soul’s  hour-glass. 

The  songs  of  the  singer 
Are  tones  that  repeat 
The  cry  of  the  heart 
Till  it  ceases  to  beat. 

v — Georgia  Douglas  Johnson 

mj 

With  yearning  vision,  yet  another  sings: 


A FAR  COUNTRY 

Beyond  the  cities  I have  seen, 
Beyond  the  wrack  and  din, 
There  is  a wide  and  fair  demesne 
Where  I have  never  been. 

Away  from  desert  wastes  of  greed, 
Over  the  peaks  of  pride, 

Across  the  seas  of  mortal  need, 

Its  citizens  abide. 


• Amplified  from  articles  which  appeared  in  the  Southern  Workman,  published 
by  Hampton  Institute,  Virginia.  , 


4 


And  through  the  distance  though  I see 
How  stem  must  be  the  fare, 

My  feet  are  ever  fain  to  be 
Upon  the  journey  there. 

In  that  far  land  the  only  school 
The  dwellers  all  attend, 

Is  built  upon  the  Golden  Rule. 

And  man  to  man  is  friend. 

No  war  is  there  nor  war’s  distress, 

But  truth  and  love  increase — 

It  is  a realm  of  pleasantness, 

And  all  her  paths  are  peace. 

— Leslie  Pinckney  Hill 

These  stanzas  are  from  four  Negro  poets  whose  voices  have 
but  lately  been  lifted  in  song — still  living  and  youthful  voices.  To 
these  I will  add  an  utterance  “from  a voice  that  is  still” — silenced 
in  death,  at  the  age  of  twenty-three  years: 

THE  MULATTO  TO  HIS  CRITICS 
Ashamed  of  my  race? 

And  of  what  race  am  I? 

I am  many  in  one. 

Of  Red  Man,  Black  Man,  Briton,  Celt,  and  Scot, 
Through  my  veins  there  flows  the  blood 
In  warring  clash  and  tumultuous  riot. 

I welcome  all,  » 

But  love  the  blood  of  the  kindly  race 
That  swarths  my  skin,  crinkles  my  hair, 

And  puts  sweet  music  into  my  soul. 

— Joseph  S.  Cotter,  Jr. 

“Sweet  music  in  the  soul” — that  is  the  Negro’s  boon  from 
Heaven.  The  sweet  music  of  the  first  stanza  quoted  in  this  essay 
came  from  the  soul  of  the  father  of  this  Negro  Lycidas.  Verily, 
“We  learn  in  suffering  what  we  teach  in  song.” 

Poetry,  in  the  popular  mind,  is  no  more  than  the  fringe  of  a 
people’s  solid  achievement,  being  merely  decorative  to  railroads 
and  factories,  the  products  of  mines  and  fields,  big  engineering 
feats  and  immense  populations.  Yet  of  ancient  civilizations,  not 
essentially  inferior  to  our  own,  virtually  all  of  moment  that  re- 
mains, or  that  passed  into  the  world’s  sum  of  good,  might  be  in- 
cluded under  the  term  poetry;  namely,  the  people’s  heroic  deeds 
and  heroic  ideals  and  heroic  dreams,  embodied  in  some  form  of 
beauty — words,  colors,  or  stone — all  their  material  wealth,  all 
that  ministered  merely  to  bodily  comfort,  or  to  vain  pride,  or  to 


5 


fleeting  physical  power,  having  perished  and  returned  to  that  dust 
whence  it  sprung.  This  is  the  moral  writ  large  in  the  ruins  of  a 
whole  series  of  ‘‘mighty”  empires.  So  outstanding  a fact  of  his- 
tory should  induce  reflection  in  the  master  spirits  of  our  age,  who 
seem  not  to  have  learned  wisdom  of  Ninevah  and  Tyre,  trite  as 
they  are  as  illustrations  of  the  transitoriness  and  vanity  of 
material  wealth. 

“Where  there  is  no  vision,  the  people  perish.  ” No  vision; 
that  is,  no  peering  into  the  future  for  a truer  and  juster  and  lovlier 
order  of  things,  no  beholding  afar  off.  the  ultimate  goal  of  life, 
inspiring  effort,  battle,  sacrifice,  entailing  sorrow,  quickening  joy, 
lifting  up  the  soul  in  power.  Vision,  then,  means  all  spiritual 
wealth,  it  means  not  merely  religion  in  the  restricted  sense  of  that 
term,  but  that  larger  expression  of  the  totality'  of  life  which  we 
call  poetry.  Poetry'  is  the  witness  of  the  vision,  the  embodiment 
of  it.  In  its  final  analysis  it  is  so  much  of  a people’s  life  as  is 
not  perishable.  The  Hebrew  people  in  their  great  classic  age — 
what  did  they,  with  their  religious  idealism,  achieve  but  this? 
Their  chronicles,  their  books  of  law,  their  books  of  wisdom,  their 
prophecies — what  are  they,  rightly  conceived,  but  poems  of  a 
divine  inspiration  springing  from  great  ethical  purpose?  Dreams, 
ideals,  aspirations,  and  strivings,  noble  joys,  and  noble  sorrows, — 
these  are  the  substance  of  those  sublime  books.  In  modern  times, 
in  this  Western  World,  we  would  call  it  all  poetry.  The  difference 
of  terminology  must  not  be  allowed  to  conceal  from  us  an  identity 
of  character.  For  poetry  through  all  the  ages  in  the  Western 
World  has  had  the  same  austerity  of  purpose,  the  same  unconquer- 
ableness of  vision,  the  same  sternness  of  rebuke  for  things  as 
they  are,  the  same  yearning  for  things  that  should  be,  as  prophecy 
had  in  the  ancient  oriental  world. 

Such  is  the  dignity,  the  importance,  of  poetry.  A people’s 
poetry,  therefore,  affords  the  most  serious  subject  of  study  to 
those  who  would  understand  that  people — that  people’s  soul,  that 
people’s  status,  that  people’s  potentialities.  A people  that  is  pro- 
ducing poetry  is  not  perishing,  but  is  astir  with  life,  with  vital  im- 
pulses, with  life-giving  visions.  It  is  a people  that  is  becoming 
noteworthy.  Statesmen  (or  wanting  these,  politicians)  may  be 


6 


warned  to  take  notice.  Employers  of  labor  may  be  reminded, 
also,  that  there  is  a world  of  undreampt-of  meaning  in  the  old 
saying  that  man  shall  not  live  by  bread  alone.  No  men  what- 
soever live  by  bread  alone. 

Poetry,  it  may  be  said  to  a practical  age,  is  the  most  practical 
thing  in  every  age  of  the  world,  in  every  country  whatsoever.  It 
is  really  the  most  efficient  thing,  to  use  the  watchword  of  our 
generation.  It  can  build  up,  it  can  tear  down,  it  can  create 
revolutions.  Nothing  of  human  creation  is  more  divine,  more 
beneficent,  more  dangerous.  As  it  is  the  friend  of  all  noble  aspiring, 
it  is  not  less  the  foe  of  all  that  should  not  be,  of  custom  that  sins 
against  justice,  of  tradition  that  wars  against  new-born  truth,  of 
all  darkness  that  would  extinguish  the  light,  of  all  that  is  inhuman. 

Less  than  a generation  ago  the  announcement  was  made  to  as 
incredulous  world  that  a Negro  poet,  a genuine  black  singer  of 
genius,  had  appeared.  A few  white  people,  a very  few,  knew, 
vaguely,  that  back  in  Colonial  times  there  was  a slave  woman  in 
Boston  who  had  written  verses,  who  was  therefore  a prodigy. 
The  space  between  Phillis  Wheatley  and  this  new  singer  was 
desert.  But  Nature  produces  freaks,  or  sports;  therefore  a Negro 
poet  was  not  absolutely  beyond  belief,  since  poets  are  rather 
freakish,  abnormal  creatures  anyway.  Incredulity  therefore 
yielded  to  an  attitude  scarcely  worthier;  namely,  that  dishonoring, 
irreverent  interpretation  of  a supreme  human  phenomenon  which 
consists  in  denominating  it  a freak  of  nature.  The  poet  is  Nature’s 
sport,  not  God’s  gift.  Dishonoring  and  irreverent  both  to  humanity 
and  to  deity  I call  this  skepticism. 

But  Dunbar  is  a fact,  as  Burns,  as  Whittier,  as  Riley,  are 
facts — a fact  of  great  moment  to  a people  and  for  a people.  But 
it  is  not  of  Dunbar  I mean  to  speak  here.  He  is  known  and  ac- 
cepted, in  a manner.  He  needs  no  emphasis,  though  he  does  need 
interpretation.  I mention  Dunbar  here  only  to  draw  attention  to 
my  theme,  that  theme  being,  not  one  poet,  but  a multitude  animated 
by  one  spirit  though  characterized  by  diversity  of  talent,  all  spokes- 
men of  their  race  in  its  new  era.  Dunbar  does  indeed  appear  to 
sustain  a definite  relation  to  these  black  singers  of  the  new  day. 
For  one  thing,  he  revealed  to  the  Negro  youth  of  our  land  the  latent 
literary  powers  of  their  race,  and,  not  less  important,  he  revealed 


7 


also  the  poetic  materials  at  hand  in  the  Negro  people,  lowly  or  dis- 
tinguished. He  may  therefore  be  thought  of  as  the  fecundating 
genius  of  their  muses.  But  I think  they  are  born,  as  he  was,  of  the 
creative  Zeitgeist,  sent  of  heaven. 

But  to  give  my  assertion  regarding  Dunbar  its  proper  signifi- 
cance, I must  remark,  for  white  people,  that  there  were  two  Dun- 
bars, and  that  they  know  but  one.  There  is  the  Dunbar  of  “ the 
jingle  in  a broken  tongue,”  whom  Howells  with  gracious  but  im- 
perfect sympathy  and  understanding  brought  to  the  knowledge  of 
the  w’orld,  and  whom  the  public  readers,  white  and  black  alike 
(the  sin  is  upon  both),  have  found  it  delightful  to  present,  to  the 
entire  eclipse  of  the  other  Dunbar.  That  other  Dunbar  was  the  poet 
of  the  flaming  “ Ode  to  Ethiopia,”  the  pathetic  lyric,  “ We  Wear 
the  Mask,”  and  a score  of  other  pieces  in  which,  using  their  speech, 
he  matches  himself  with  the  poets  who  shine  as  stars  in  the  firma- 
ment of  our  admiration.  This  Dunbar,  I say,  Howells  failed  to 
appreciate,  and  ignorance  of  him  has  been  fostered  by  professional 
readers  and  writers.  The  first  Dunbar,  the  generally  accepted  one, 
was,  as  Howells  pointed  out,  the  artistic  interpreter  of  the  old- 
fashioned,  vanishing  generation  of  black  folk — the  generation  that 
was  maimed  and  scarred  by  slavery,  that  presented  so  many  ludi- 
crous and  pathetic,  abject  and  lovable  aspects  in  strange  mixture. 
The  second  Dunbar  was  the  prophet  robed  in  a mantle  of  auster- 
ity, shod  with  fire,  bowed  with  sorrow,  as  every  true  prophet  has 
been,  in  whatever  time,  among  whatever  people.  He  was  the 
prophet,  I say,  of  a new  generation,  a coming  generation,  as  he 
was  the  poet  of  a vanishing  generation.  The  generation  of  which 
he  was  the  prophet-herald  has  arrived.  Its  most  authentic  repre- 
sentatives are  the  poets  to  whom  I have  referred. 

There  has  been  in  these  years  a renaissance  of  the  Negro  soul, 
and  poetry  is  one  of  its  expressions.  Other  expressions  there  are 
and  very  significant  ones,  expressions  which  the  world  is  taking 
note  of  since  they  are  material  or  expressible  in  terms  ail  men  under- 
stand. Poetry  is  not  of  these.  Yet  poetry,  I say,  is  perhaps  the 
most  potent  and  significant  expression  of  the  re-bom  soul  of  the 
Negro  in  this  our  day,  in  witness  of  which  assertion  this  “ prayer 
otf  the  race  that  God  made  black  ” may  be  accepted: 


8 


We  would  be  peaceful,  Father — but  when  we  must, 

Help  us  to  thunder  hard  the  blow  that’s  just. 

We  would  be  manly,  proving  well  our  worth, 

Then  would  not  cringe  to  any  god  on  earth. 

We  would  be  loving  and  forgiving,  thus 
To  love  our  neighbor  as  thou  lovest  us. 

We  would  be  faithful,  loyal  to  the  Right, 

Ne’er  doubting  that  the  day  will  follow  night. 

We  would  be  all  that  Thou  hast  meant  for  man. 

Up  through  the  ages,  since  the  world  began. 

God,  save  us  in  thy  Heaven,  where  all  is  well! 

We  come,  slow-struggling,  up  the  hills  of  Hell. 

The  author,  Lucian  B.  Watkins,  of  Virginian  birth,  was 
wrecked  in  health  in  oversea’s  service,  and  died  February  1,  1921, 
in  the  Fort  McHenry  Hospital,  Maryland.  From  his  sick  bed  he 
sent  out  poems  of  extraordinary  merit  and  of  great  passion.  Op- 
timism is  often  said  to  be  a characteristic  of  the  Negro.  Here  are 
some  stanzas  from  a poem  entitled,  “ The  Optimist,”  by  Miss 
Ethyl  Lewis: 

Never  mind,  children,  be  patient  awhile, 

And  carry  your  load  with  a nod  and  a smile , 

For  out  of  the  hell  and  the  hard  of  it  all. 

Time  is  sure  to  bring  sweetest  honey — not  gall. 

Out  of  the  hell  and  the  hard  of  it  all, 

A bright  star  shall  rise  that  never  shall  fall : 

A God-fearing  race — proud,  noble,  and  true, 

Giving  good  for  the  evil  which  they  always  knew. 
***** 

So  dry  your  wet  pillow'  and  lift  your  bowed  head 
And  show  to  the  world  that  hope  is  not  dead ! 

Be  patient ! Wait ! See  what  yet  may  befall. 

Out  of  the  hell  and  the  hard  of  it  all. 

The  Negro  might  well  be  expected  to  exhibit  a gift  for  poetry. 
His  gift  for  oratory  has  long  been  acknowledged.  The  fact  has 
been  accepted  without  reflection  upon  its  significance.  It  should 
have  been  foreseen  that  because  of  the  close  kinship  between  ora- 
tory and  poetry  the  Negro  would  some  day,  with  more  culture, 
achieve  distinction  in  the  latter  art,  as  he  had  already 
achieved  distinction  in  the  former  art.  The  endowments  which 
make  for  distinction  in  these  two  great  kindred  arts,  it  must  also 
be  remarked,  have  not  been  properly  esteemed  in  the  Negro.  In 
other  races  oratory  and  poetry  have  been  accepted  as  the  tokens  of 
noble  qualities  of  character,  lofty  spiritual  gifts.  Such  they  are,  in 
all  races.  They  spring  from  mankind’s  supreme  spiritual  impulses, 
from  mankind’s  loftiest  aspirations — the  aspirations  for  freedom, 
for  justice,  for  virtue,  for  honor  and  distinction. 


9 


That  these  impulses,  these  aspirations,  and  these  endowments 
are  in  the  American  Negro  and  are  now  exhibiting  themselves  in 
verse, — it  is  this  I wish  to  show  to  the  skeptically  minded.  All 
will  admit  at  once  that  the  Negro  nature  is  endowed  above  most 
others,  if  not  all  others,  in  fervor  of  feeling,  in  the  completeness  of 
self-surrender  to  emotion.  Hence  we  see  that  marvelous  display  of 
rhythm  in  the  individual  and  in  the  group.  This  capacity  of  sub- 
mission to  a higher  harmony,  a grander  power,  than  self,  affords  the 
explanation  of  mankind’s  highest  reaches  of  thought,  supreme  in- 
sights, and  noblest  expressions.  Rhythm  is  its  manifestation.  It 
is  the  most  central  and  compulsive  law  of  the  universe.  The 
rhythmic  soul  falls  into  harmony  and  co-operation  with  the  uni- 
versal creative  energy.  It  therefore  becomes  a creative  soul. 

But  fervor  of  feeling  must  have  some  originating  cause.  That 
cause  is  an  imagination — the  vivid,  concrete  presentation  of  an 
object  or  idea  to  the  mind.  The  Negro  has  this  endowment  also. 
Ideas  enter  his  mind  with  a vividness  and  power  which  betoken  an 
extraordinary  faculty  of  imagination.  The  graphic  originality 
of  language  commonly  exhibited  by  the  Negro  would  be  sufficient 
proof  of  this  were  other  proof  wanting.  And  no  one  will  deny  to 
the  Negro  this  gift.  Whoever  has  listened  to  a colored  preacher’s 
sermon,  either  of  the  old  or  the  new  school,  will  recall  perhaps  more 
than  one  example  of  poetic  phrasing,  more  than  one  word-picture, 
that  rendered  some  idea  vivid  beyond  vanishing.  It  no  doubt  has 
been  made,  in  the  ignorant  or  illiterate,  an  object  of  jest,  just  as 
the  other  two  endowments  have  been;  but  these  three  gifts  are  the 
three  supreme  gifts  of  the  poet,  and  the  poet  is  the  supreme  out- 
come of  the  race.  Pow'er  of  feeling,  power  of  imagination,  power 
of  expression, — these  make  the  poet. 

As  a witness  of  the  Negro's  untutored  gift  for  song  there  are 
the  Spirituals,  his  “ canticles  of  love  and  woe,”  chanted  wildly, 
in  that  darkness  which  only  a few  rays  from  Heaven  brightened. 
Since  they  afford,  as  it  wrere,  a background  for  the  song  of  cultured 
art  which  now  begins  to  appear,  I must  here  give  a word  to  these 
crude  old  plantation  songs.  They  are  one  of  the  most  notable 
contributions  of  any  people,  similarly  circumstanced,  to  the  world’s 
treasury  of  song,  altogether  the  most  appealing.  Their  signifi- 
cance for  history  and  for  art — especially  for  art— awaits  interpre- 


10 


tation.  There  are  signs  that  this  interpretation  is  not  far  in  the 
future.  Dvorak,  the  Bohemian,  aided  by  the  Negro  composer, 
Harry  T.  Burleigh,  may  have  heralded,  in  his  “ New  World  Sym- 
phony,” the  consummate  achievement  of  the  future  which  shall  be 
entirely  the  Negro’s.  Had  Samuel  Coleridge-Taylor  been  an 
American  instead  of  an  English  Negro,  this  theme  rather  than  the 
Indian  theme  might  have  occupied  his  genius. 

But  the  sister  art  of  poetry  may  anticipate  music  in  the  great 
feat  of  embodying  artistically  the  yearning,  suffering,  prayerful 
soul  of  the  African  in  those  centuries  when  he  could  only  with 
patience  endure  and  trust  in  God — and  wail  these  mournfullest  of 
melodies.  Some  lyrical  drama  like  “ Prometheus  Bound,”  but 
more  touching  as  being  more  human;  some  epic  like  “ Paradise 
Lost,”  but  nearer  to  the  common  heart  of  man,  and  more  lyrical; 
some  “ Divina  Commedia  ” that  shall  be  the  voice  of  those  silent 
centuries  of  slavery,  as  Dante’s  poem  was  the  voice  of  the  long- 
silent  epoch  preceding  it,  is  the  not  improbable  achievement  of 
some  descendant  of  the  slaves. 

In  a poem  of  tender  appeal,  James  Weldon  Johnson  has  cele- 
brated the  “ black  and  unknown  bards,”  who,  without  art,  and 
even  without  letters,  produced  from  their  hearts,  weighed  down  with 
sorrows,  the  immortal  Spirituals: 

O black  and  unknown  bards  of  long  ago, 

How  came  your  lips  to  touch  the  sacred  fire? 

How,  in  your  darkness,  did  you  come  to  know 
The  power  and  beauty  of  the  minstrel’s  lyre? 

Who  first  from  midst  his  bonds  lifted  his  eyes? 

Who  first  from  out  the  still  watch,  lone  and  long, 

Feeling  the  ancient  faith  of  prophets  rise 
Within  his  dark-kept  soul,  burst  into  song? 

So  begins  this  noble  tribute  to  the  nameless  natural  poets 
from  whose  hearts,  touched  as  a harp  by  the  Divine  Spirit,  gave 
forth  “Swing  low,  Sweet  Chariot,”  and  “Nobody  Knows  de  Trouble 
I see,”  “Steal  away  to  Jesus,”  and  “ Roll,  Jordan,  roll.” 

Great  praise  does  indeed  rightly  belong  to  that  black  slave- 
folk  who  gave  to  the  world  this  treasure  of  religious  song.  To  the 
world,  I say,  for  they  belong  as  truly  to  the  whole  world  as  do 
the  quaint  and  incomparable  animal  stories  of  Uncle  Remus.  Their 
appeal  is  to  every  human  heart,  but  especially  to  the  heart  that  has 
known  great  sorrow  and  which  looks  to  God  for  help. 


li 


There  is  a book  of  rhymes  which,  every  Christmas  season,  is 
the  favorite  gift,  the  most  gladly  received,  of  all  that  Santa  Claus 
brings.  Nor  so  at  Christmas  only  ; it  is  a perennial  pleasure,  a 
boon  to  all  children,  young  and  old  in  years.  This  book  is  Mother 
Goose’s  Melodies.  How  many  “ immortal  ” epics  of  learned  poets 
it  has  outlived ! How  many  dainty  volumes  of  polished  lyrics  has 
this  humble  book  of  “ rhymes  ” seen  vanish  to  the  dusty  realms  of 
dark  oblivion!  In  every  home  it  has  a place  and  is  cherished.  Its 
contents  are  better  known  and  more  loved  than  the  contents  of 
any  other  book.  Untutored,  nameless  poets,  nature-inspired,  gave 
this  priceless  boon  to  all  generations  of  children,  and  to  all  sorts 
and  conditions — an  immortal  book  if  such  there  is. 

As  a life-long  teacher  and  student  of  poetry,  I venture,  with 
no  fear,  the  assertion  that  from  no  book  of  verse  in  our  language 
can  the  whole  art  of  poetry  be  so  effectively  learned  as  from 
“ Mother  Goose’s  Melodies.”  Every  device  of  rhyme,  and  melody, 
and  rhythm,  and  tonal  color  is  exemplified  here  in  a manner  to  pro- 
duce the  effects  which  all  the  great  artists  in  verse  aim  at.  This 
book  that  we  all  love — and  patronize — is  the  greatest  melodic 
triumph  in  our  literature.  And  it  is  of  unknown,  though  cer- 
tainly humble,  origin. 

In  the  realm  of  sacred  song  the  Negro  Spirituals  hold  a like 
pre-eminence  and  have  a like  history.  They  are  the  Mother  Goose’s 
Melodies  of  sacred  song.  Out  of  such  simple  elements  never  were 
such  effects  produced.  How  meagre  the  vocabulary,  how  single 
the  idea,  what  repetition!  Yet  how  the  impression  is  constantly 
deepened,  how  the  emotion — which  is  the  legitimate  end  of  a song 
— is  constantly  intensified!  They  warm  our  hearts,  as  no  other 
religious  songs,  to  the  melting  point.  They  make  our  hearts  glow 
with  kindly  feelings,  with  everlasting  hopes,  and  with  visions  of 
eternal  victory.  This  is  religion  on  the  emotional  side.  As  thus 
ministering  to  our  spiritual  nature,  these  gifts  of  the  spirit,  these 
“ Spirituals,”  are  to  be  respected  and  held  in  reverence.  I never 
wish  to  hear  them,  for  my  part,  except  from  consecrated  lips  and 
reverential  hearts. 

In  certain  aspects  these  Spirituals  suggest  the  songs  of  Zion, 
the  Psalms.  Trouble  is  the  mother  of  song,  particularly  of  reli- 


12 


gious  song.  In  trouble  the  soul  cries  out  to  God — “ a very  present 
help  in  time  of  trouble.”  The  Psalms  and  the  Spirituals  alike 
rise  de  profundis.  But  in  one  respect  the  songs  of  the  African 
slaves  differ  from  the  songs  of  Israel  in  captivity:  there  is  no 
prayer  for  vengeance  in  the  Spirtuals,  no  vindictive  spirit  ever  even 
suggested.  We  can  but  wonder  now  at  this.  For  slavery  at  its 
best  was  unspeakably  degrading,  cruel,  and  oppressive.  Yet  no 
imprecation,  such  as  mars  so  many  a beautiful  Psalm,  ever  found 
its  way  into  a plantation  Spiritual.  A convincing  testimony  this 
to  that  spirit  in  the  African  slave  which  Christ,  by  precept  and  ex- 
ample, sought  to  establish  in  his  disciples.  If  the  Negro  in  our 
present  day  is  growing  bitter  toward  the  white  race,  does  it  not 
behoove  us  to  inquire  why  it  is  so,  in  view  of  his  indisputable 
patience,  meekness,  and  good-nature?  We  might  find  in  our 
present  regime  a more  intolerable  cruelty  than  belonged  even  to 
slavery,  if  we  investigated  honestly.  There  is  certainly  a bitter  and 
vindictive  tone  in  much  of  the  Afro-American  verse  now  appearing 
in  the  colored  press.  Alas,  that  it  is  so.  For  both  races  it  augurs  ill. 

In  a very  striking  way  these  folk-songs  of  the  plantation  sug- 
gest the  old  English  folk-songs  of  unknown  authorship  and  origin 
— the  ancient  traditional  ballads,  long  despised  and  neglected,  but 
ever  living  on  and  loved  in  the  hearts  of  the  people.  This  un- 
studied poetry  of  the  people,  the  unlettered  common  folk,  had  su- 
preme virtues,  the  elemental  and  universal  virtues  of  simplicity, 
sincerity,  veracity.  It  had  the  power,  in  an  artificial  age,  to  bring 
poetry  back  to  reality,  to  genuine  emotion,  to  effectiveness,  to  the 
common  interests  of  mankind.  Simple  and  crude  as  it  was  it  had 
a merit  unknown  to  the  polished  verse  of  the  schools.  Potential 
Negro  poets  might  do  well  to  ponder  this  fact  of  literary  history. 
There  is  nothing  more  precious  in  English  literature  than  this 
crude  old  poetry  of  the  people. 

But  I have  not  yet  indicated  the  precise  place  of  these  Spirit- 
uals in  the  world's  treasury  of  song.  Their  closest  kinship  is 
with — not  “ Mother  Goose’s  Melodies,”  not  the  old  English  ballads, 
nor  yet  the  Psalms  of  Israel — but  the  song  offerings,  the  chanted 
prayers,  of  the  primitive  Church,  of  the  Church  in  the  age  of 
persecution,  the  litanies 


u 


“ — that  came 
Like  the  volcano’s  tongue  of  flame 
Up  from  the  burning  core  below — 

The  canticles  of  love  and  woe.” 

These  songs  might  be  called  the  melodious  tears  of  slaves. 
An  African  proverb  says,  “ We  weep  in  our  hearts  like  the  tor- 
toise.” In  their  hearts — so  wept  the  slaves,  silently  save  for 
these  mournful  cries  in  melody.  Without  means  of  defense,  save 
a nature  armored  with  faith,  when  assailed,  insulted,  oppressed, 
they  could  but  imitate  the  tortoise  when  he  shuts  himself  up  in  his 
shell  and  patiently  takes  the  blows  that  fall.  The  world  knew 
not  then,  nor  fully  knows  now — partly  because  of  African  buoy- 
ancy, pliability,  and  optimism — what  tears  they  wept.  These 
Spirituals  are  the  golden  vials  spoken  of  in  Holy  Writ,  “ full  of 
odors,  which  are  the  prayers  of  saints  ” — an  everlasting  memorial 
before  the  throne  of  God.  Other  vials  there  are,  the  vials  of  wrath, 
and  these,  too,  are  at  God's  right  hand. 

A Negro  sculptor,  Mrs.  Meta  Warrick  Fuller,  not  knowing  of 
this  proverb  about  the  tortoise  which  has  only  recently  been  brought 
from  Africa,  but  simply  interpreting  Negro  life  in  America,  has 
embodied  the  very  idea  of  the  African  saying  in  bronze.  Under 
the  title  “ Secret  Sorrow  ” a man  is  represented  as  eating  his 
own  heart. 

The  interpretation  in  art  of  the  Spirituals,  or  a poetry  of 
art  developed  along  the  lines  and  in  the  spirit  of  those  songs,  is 
something  we  may  expect  the  black  singers  of  no  distant  day  to  pro- 
duce. Already  we  have  many  a poem  that  offers  striking  rem- 
iniscences or  traits  of  the  Spirituals. 

The  Negro  singer  of  this  era,  the  heir  of  those  “ black  and 
unknown  bards,”  has  indeed  a noble  heritage  of  song.  And  if 
there  is  any  shame  (which  there  is)  the  shame  is  not  the  Negro’s; 
but  the  glory  is.  Therefore,  let  him  sing  triumphantly  the  old 
song,  and  add  to  it  a new  one,  like,  but  with  other  elements  of 
power  from  a higher  art. 

Two  or  three  poems  will  make  clearer  my  meaning  with 
reference  to  the  kinship  of  some  of  the  best  Negro  verse  of  the 
present  day  with  the  Spirituals. 


14 


THE  BAND  OF  GIDEON 

The  band  of  Gideon  roam  the  sky, 

The  howling  wind  is  their  war-cry, 

The  thunder’s  roll  is  their  trumpet’s  peal, 

And  the  lightnings  flash  their  vengeful  steel. 

Each  black  cloud 
Is  a fiery  steed. 

And  they  cry  aloud 
With  each  strong  deed, 

“ The  Sword  of  the  Lord  and  Gideon.” 

And  men  below  rear  temples  high 
And  mock  their  God  with  reasons  why, 

And  live  in  arrogance,  sin,  and  shame, 

And  rape  their  souls  for  the  world’s  good  name. 

Each  black  cloud 
Is  a fiery  steed. 

And  they  cry  aloud 
With. each  strong  deed, 

“ The  Sword  of  the  Lord  and  Gideon.” 

The  band  of  Gideon  roam  the  sky 
And  view  the  earth  with  baleful  eye; 

In  holy  wrath  theey  scourge  the  land 
With  earthquake,  storm,  and  burning  brand. 

Each  black  cloud 
Is  a fiery  steed. 

And  they  cry  aloud 
With  each  strong  deed, 

“ The  Sword  of  the  Lord  and  Gideon.” 

The  lightnings  flash  and  the  thunders  roll, 

And  “ Lord  have  mercy  on  my  soul,” 

Cry  men  as  they  fall  on  the  stricken  sod, 

In  agony  searching  for  their  God. 

Each  black  cloud 
Is  a fiery  steed. 

And  they  cry  aloud 
With  each  strong  deed, 

“ The  Sword  of  the  Lord  and  Gideon.” 

And  men  repent  and  then  forget 
That  heavenly  wrath  they  ever  met. 

The  band  of  Gideon  yet  will  come 

And  strike  their  tongues  of  blasphemy  dumb. 

Each  black  cloud 
Is  a fiery  steed. 

And  they  cry  aloud 
With  each  strong  deed, 

“ The  Sword  of  the  Lord  and  Gideon.” 

— Joseph  S.  Cotter,  Jr. 

The  reader,  I predict,  will  be  drawn  back  again  and  again 
to  this  mysteriously  powerful  poem.  It  will  continue  to  haunt  his 
imagination.  The  stamp  of  genius,  African  genius,  is  upon  it. 
Closely  allied,  on  the  one  hand,  by  its  august  refrain,  to  the 


IS 


Spirituals,  on  the  other  hand  it  touches  the  most  refined  and  per- 
fected art;  such,  for  example,  as  Rossetti’s  ballads  or  Vachel 
Lindsay’s  cantatas.  The  author  at  his  early  death,  in  1918,  left 
behind  a thin  volume  of  lyrics,  a little  book  of  one-act  plays,  and 
an  unfinished  sonnet  sequence  of  extraordinary  beauty.1  Joseph 
S.  Cotter,  Sr.,  the  father,  is  still  living,  in  Louisville,  Kentucky. 
He  is  a playwright,  fabulist,  poet,  and  schoolmaster.  His  great 
variety  and  range  even  as  a poet  alone  cannot  be  represented  here, 
but  the  following  sonnet  will  reveal  that  we  have  in  Cotter  a poet 
of  no  common  sort. 


THE  PROPHET 

He  saw  life  masquerade  in  Babylon, 

He  saw  Life  jaded  by  the  mystic  Nile, 

While  weaving  tapestry  of  brick  and  stone 
To  mesh  its  merriment  and  seal  its  smile. 

He  brought  the  fore-time  to  this  after-time, 

He  questioned  workers,  warriors,  poets,  sages, 

Then  whispered  to  himself : “ Nor  tribe,  nor  clime, 

Nor  God,  nor  Devil  can  unwed  the  ages.” 

The  Prophet  felt  the  ache  that  we  are  feeling, 

The  Prophet  saw  the  greed  that  bows  us  under; 

And  heard  the  echo  of  our  tense  appealing 

For  brotherhood  that  dares  not  halt  nor  blunder. 

The  Past  will  be  the  Present.  Let  us  make 
To-day  tomorrow  for  our  children’s  sake. 

To  this,  also,  I predict,  the  reader  will  return  for  more  than 
one  perusal  and  then  its  idea  will  remain  in  his  thoughts. 

To  Mrs.  Alice  Dunbar-Nelson,  the  widow  of  the  poet  Dunbar, 
we  are  indebted  fer  one  of  the  most  beautiful  sonnets  ever  written. 

I had  not  thought  of  violets  of  late, 

The  wild,  shy  kind  that  spring  beneath  your  feet 
In  wistful  April  days,  when  lovers  mate 
And  wander  through  the  fields  in  raptures  sweet. 

The  thoughts  of  violets  meant  florists’  shops, 

And  bows  and  pins,  and  perfumed  papers  fine; 

And  garish  lights,  and  mincing  little  fops, 

And  cabarets  and  songs,  and  deadening  wine. 

So  far  from  sweet  real  things  my  thoughts  had  strayed, 

I had  forgot  wide  fields  and  clear  brown  streams; 

The  perfect  loveliness  that  God  has  made — 

Wild  violets  shy  and  Heaven-mounting  dreams. 

And  now — unwittingly,  you’ve  made  me  dream 
Of  violets,  and  my  soul’s  forgotten  gleam. 

1 Published  in  the  A.  M.  E.  Zion  Quarterly  Review  f"Xew  York),  XXXI,  3 


16 


Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  or  Christina  Rossetti  could  have 
placed  her  signature  to  that  sonnet  without  danger  to  her  fame.  A 
passion  for  nature  is  one  of  the  traits  of  the  true  poet.  In  several 
of  the  Negro  poets  of  to-day  I find  this  passion  gaining  artistic  ex- 
pression. From  Charles  Bertram  Johnson’s  “ Songs  of  My  People  ” 
I take  the  following  exquisite  lyric: 


A RAIN  SONG 

Chill  the  rain  falls,  chill! 

Dull  gray  the  world  ; the  vale 
Rain-swept;  wind-swept  the  hill; 

“ But  gloom  and  doubt  prevail,” 

My  heart  breaks  forth  to  say. 

Ere  thus  its  sorrow  note, 

“ Cheer  up ! Cheer  up  1 to-day, 

To-morrow  is  to  be,” 

Babbled  from  a joyous  throat, 

A robin’s,  in  a mist-gray  tree. 

Then  off  to  keep  a tryst— ^ 

He  preened  his  drabbled  cloak — 

Doughty  little  optimist ! 

As  if  in  answer,  broke 
The  sunlight  thru  that  oak. 

' Mr.  Johnson,  whose  home  is  Moberly,  Missouri,  is  school- 
master, preacher,  and,  I think  you  will  agree,  poet.  The  following 
stanza-poem — he  affords  many  such — both  represents  his  artistry 
and  is  a poignantly  pathetic  comment  upon  a little  understood 
race: 


MY  PEOPLE 

My  people  laugh  and  sing 
And  dance  to  death — 

None  imagining 

The  heartbreak  under  breath. 

Death  and  the  mysteries  of  life,  the  pain  and  the  grief  that 
flesh  and  soul  are  heirs  to,  the  eternal  problems  that  address  them- 
selves to  all  generations  and  races,  produce  in  the  soul  of  the  Negro 
the  same  reactions  as  of  old  they  produced  in  the  soul  of  David  or 
of  Homer,  or  as,  in  our  own  day,  in  the  soul  of  a Wordsworth  or  a 
Shelley.  Of  this  we  have  a glimpse  in  the  following  lyric,  from 
Mr.  Walter  Everette  Hawkins: 


17 


IN  SPITE  OF  DEATH 

Curses  come  in  every  sound, 

And  wars  spread  gloom  and  woe  around. 

The  cannon  belch  forth  death  and  doom, 

But  still  the  lilies  wave  and  bloom. 

Man  fills  the  earth  with  grief  and  wrong, 

But  cannot  hush  the  bluebird’s  song. 

My  stars  are  dancing  on  the  sea, 

The  waves  fling  kisses  up  at  me. 

Each  night  my  gladsome  moon  doth  rise  ; 

A rainbow  spans  my  evening  skies  ; 

The  robin’s  song  is  full  and  fine; 

And  roses  lift  their  lips  to  mine. 

The  jonquils  ope  their  petals  sweet, 

The  poppies  dance  around  my  feet; 

In  spite  of  winter  and  of  death, 

The  Spring  is  in  the  zephyr’s  breath. 

The  kinship  of  souls,  a truth  which  all  of  this  poetry  im- 
presses upon  the  reader,  finds  explicit  expression  in  the  following 
lines  from  Mr.  Leon  R.  Harris: 

We  travel  a common  road,  Brother, — 

We  walk  and  we  talk  much  the  same  ; 

We  breathe  the  same  sweet  air  of  heaven — 

Strive  alike  for  fortune  and  fame; 

We  laugh  when  our  hearts  fill  with  gladness, 

We  weep  when  we’re  smothered  in  woe; 

We  strive,  we  endure,  we  seek  wisdom ; 

We  sin — and  we  reap  what  we  sow. 

Yes,  all  who  would  know  it  can  see  that 
When  everything’s  put  to  the  test, 

In  spite  of  our  color  and  features, 

The  Negro’s  the  same  as  the  rest. 

In  the  poetry  which  the  Negro  is  producing  to-day  there  is  a 
challenge  to  the  world.  His  race  has  been  deeply  stirred  by  recent 
events;  its  reaction  has  been  mighty.  The  challenge,  spoken  by 
one,  but  for  the  race,  the  inarticulate  millions  as  well  as  the  cul- 
tured few,  comes  thus: 


TO  AMERICA 

How  would  you  have  us — as  we  are, 

Or  sinking  ’neath  the  load  we  bear? 

Our  eyes  fixed  forward  on  a star? 

Or  gazing  empty  at  despair? 

Rising  or  falling?  Men  or  things? 

With  dragging  pace,  or  footsteps  fleet? 

Strong,  willing,  sinews  in  your  wings? 

Or  tightening  chains  about  your  feet? 

— James  Weldon  Johnson 


18 


The  World  War,  in  which  the  Negroes  gave  liberally,  patriot- 
ically, heroically,  of  their  blood  and  treasure  for  democracy,  quick- 
ened dying  hopes  and  begot  new  aspirations  in  them — hopes  and 
aspirations  the  absence  of  which  would  rank  them  lower  in  the 
scale  of  humanity.  Out  of  many  poetic  expressions  of  this  reaction 
I choose  the  following,  from  “ The  Heart  of  the  World  and  Other 
Poems,”  by  Joshua  Henry  Jones,  Jr.: 

THE  HEART  OF  THE  WORLD 

In  the  heart  of  the  world  is  the  call  for  peace — 

Up-surging,  symphonic  roar. 

’Tis  ill  of  all  clashings  ; it  seeks  release 
From  fetters  of  greed  and  gore. 

The  winds  of  the  battlefields  echo  the  sigh 
Of  heroes  slumbering  deep, 

Who  gave  all  they  had  and  now  dreamlessly  lie 
Where  the  bayonets  sent  them  to  sleep. 

Peace  for  the  wealthy  ; peace  for  the  poor  ; 

Peace  on  the  hillside,  and  peace  on  the  moor. 

In  the  heart  of  the  w«rld  is  the  call  for  love  : 

For  fingers  to  bind  up  the  wound, 

Slashed  deep  by  the  ruthless,  harsh  hand  of  might, 

When  Justice  is  crushed  to  the  ground. 

’Tis  ill  of  the  fevers  of  fear  of  the  strong — 

Of  jealousies — prejudice — pride. 

“ Is  there  no  ideal  that’s  proof  against  wrong  ? 

Man  asks  of  the  man  at  his  side. 

Right  for  the  lowly  ; right  for  the  great  ; 

Right  all  to  pilot  to  happiness’  gate. 

In  the  heart  of  the  world  is  the  call  for  love: 

White  heart — Red — Yellow — and  Black. 

Each  face  turns  to  Bethlehem's  bright  star  above. 

Though  wolves  of  self  howl  at  each  back. 

The  whole  earth  is  lifting  its  voice  in  a prayer 
That  nations  may  learn  to  endure, 

Without  killing  and  maiming,  but  doing  what’s  fair 
With  a soul  that  is  noble  and  pure. 

Love  in  weak  peoples  ; love  in  the  strong  ; 

Love  that  will  banish  all  hatred  and  wrong. 

In  the  heart  of  the  world  is  the  call  of  God  ; 

East — West — and  North — and  South. 

Stirring,  deep-yearning,  breast-heaving  call  for  God 
A-tremble  behind  each  mouth. 

The  heart’s  ill  of  torments  that  rend  men’s  souls. 

Skyward  lift  all  faiths  and  hopes  ; 

Across  all  the  oceans  the  evidence  rolls, 

Refreshing  all  life’s  arid  slopes. 

God  in  the  highborn  ; God  in  the  low  ; 

God  calls  us,  world-brothers.  Hark  ye I and  know. 


19 


i 

There  is  not  in  all  our  poetic  literature  a more  eloquent  apos- 
trophe to  our  country's  flag  than  I am  able  to  offer  here  from  a 
Negro  poet.  The  writer,  Edward  Smyth  Jones,  is  author  of  a 
volume  entitled  The  Sylvan  Cabin. 


FLAG  OF  THE  FREE 

Flag  of  the  free,  our  sable  sires 
First  bore  thee  long  ago 

Into  hot  battles’  hell-lit  fires, 

Against  the  fiercest  foe. 

And  when  he  shook  his  shaggy  mien. 

And  made  the  death-knell  ring. 

Brave  Attucks  fell  upon  the  Green, 

Thy  stripes  first  crimsoning! 

Thy  might  and  majesty  we  hurl. 

Against  the  bolts  of  Mars  ; 

And  from  thy  ample  folds  unfurl 
Thy  field  of  flaming  stars! 

Fond  hope  to  nations  in  distress. 

Thy  starry  gleam  shall  give; 

The  stricken  in  the  wilderness 
Shall  look  to  thee  and  live. 

What  matter  if  where  Boreas  roars, 

Or  where  sweet  Zephyr  smiles? 

What  matter  it  where  eagle  soars, 

Or  in  the  sunlit  isles  ; 

The  flowing  crimson  stripes  shall  wave 
Above  the  bluish  brine, 

Emblazoned  ensign  of  the  brave. 

And  Liberty  enshrine! 

Flag  of  the  Free,  still  float  on  high 
Through  every  age  to  come  ; 

Bright  beacon  of  the  azure  sky, 

True  light  of  Freedom’s  dome. 

Till  nations  all  shall  cease  to  grope 
In  vain  for  liberty, 

0 shine,  last  lingering  star  of  hope 
Of  all  humanity ! 

It  has  often  been  disputed  that  didacticism  is  consistent  with 
poetry.  But  is  there  not  always  a didactic  power  in  “ noble  ideas 
nobly  expressed,”  which  poetry  is?  To  the  credit  of  its  writers 
much  of  the  best  Negro  verse  of  the  times  is  didactic.  Wordsworth 
said  he  had  learned  from  Bums,  who  walked  in  glory  following  his 
plow, 

“ How  verse  may  build  a princely  throne 
On  humble  truth.” 


20 


when  didacticism  can  be  infused  with  emotion,  emotion  akin 
to  religious  feeling,  and  made  to  delight  by  the  witchery  of  art, 
we  may  welcome  it  and  rejoice  in  it.  Beauty  and  Use  have  then 
joined  in  wedlock.  Two  poems  of  this  character  I will  present. 
The  first  is  from  a schoolmaster  whom  I have  already  introduced 
— Joseph  S.  Cotter,  Sr.: 


THE  NEGRO  CHILD 

My  little  one  of  ebon  hue, 

My  little  one  with  fluffy  hair, 

The  wide,  wide  world  is  calling  you 
To  think  and  do  and  dare. 

The  lessons  of  stem  yesterdays 

That  stir  your  blood  and  poise  your  brain 

Are  etching  out  the  simple  ways 
By  which  you  must  attain. 

An  echo  here,  a memory  there, 

An  act  that  links  itself  with  truth  ; 

A vision  that  makes  troubles  air 
And  toils  the  joy  of  youth : 

These  be  your  food,  your  drink,  your  rest, 

These  be  your  moods  of  drudgeful  ease, 

For  these  be  nature’s  spur  and  test 
And  heaven’s  fair  degrees. 

My  little  one  of  ebon  hue, 

My  little  one  with  fluffy  hair, 

Go  train  your  head  and  hands  to  do, 

Your  head  and  heart  to  dare. 

The  one  following  is  from  a sixteen-year-old  school  girl,  Miss 
Elna  Ardell  Woods,  tenth  grade,  Hattiesburg,  Mississippi: 

MAKE  A SUCCESS  OF  YOURSELF 

Make  a success  of  yourself, 

Don’t  worry  too  much  about  fame. 

Or  power  in  the  struggle  for  pelf, 

Just  make  a success  of  your  name. 

Be  one  that  is  rated  at  par 

In  the  markets  of  men  every  day, 

Be  all  that  good  fellows  are, 

Don’t  live  in  a slovenly  way. 

Make  yourself  live  as  you  should, 

Make  yourself  carry  a smile, 

Be  sure  that  your  character’s  good, 

Be  sure  that  your  Word  is  worth  while  ; 

Play  fair  though  you  win  or  you  lose, 

Be  kindly  and  true  to  the  end, 

Be  the  same  sort  of  man  that  you’d  choose 
To  have  as  a comrade  and  friend. 


21 


The  battle  of  life’s  not  so  hard 
If  only  you’ll  fight  as  a man  ; 

There  are  many  to  stand  by  ^nd  guard 
And  help  you  as  much  as,  they  can. 

But  it’s  you  that  you  offej  for  sale, 

With  your  traits  ranged  .like  goods  on  a shelf, 

And  the  first  thing  to  da  Without  fail, 
to  make  a success  of  yourself.  r 

* ‘ V *»  * py 

It  is  no  matter  for  $gpf^>ris*,»  in  view  of -the  great  strides  the 
Negroes  of  our  land  Jhavotnacjiejin'the'  acquisition  of  property  and 
education  and  in  advancmsf  tht-rnselves  everv  way,  that  their  poets 
should  celebrate  their  achit^fnepfs.*'  Leon  R.  Harris  thus  writes 


• •• 

4|  ’% 

■ ’$0,^.  r 

•/•V 


of  the  progre<J§  of  his  jteupfc:  •*'  1 


% 


W$lve  bn  ikied  *>ur  schools  and  our  churches 
By  jpaths  where\>ur  slave  fathers  trod ; 

We’ve  trained  ou&  hands  for  a living, 

Our  minds  and  our  hearts  to  see  God. 

We’ve  laughed  at  our  trials  and  troubles, 

Our  confidenca  cfupnching  our  fears  ; 

W e’ve  sung  away  sorrow  and  sadness: 

" ^ We’ve  prayed  away  poverty’s  tears. 

• • 

Mr.  Harris,  now  editor  of  The  Richmond  Blade(  Indiana)  was 
reared  in  an  orphanage,  had  a few  terms  in  the  common  schools, 
obtained  by  fii#  own  efforts  two  years  at  Berea  and  three  years  at 
Tuskegee,  an^  was  until  a year  or  so  ago  a worker  in  a furnadt 
factory.  A poem  of  his  entitled  “ The  Steel  Makers  ” is  re-  # 
markable  for  its  intrinsic  merit,  for  its  glorification  of  work,  and 
for  its  interpretation  of  the  life  of  his  fellow-wrorkmen.  I will  give 
the  opening  lines: 

Filled  with  the  vigor  such  jobs  demand, 

Strong  of  muscle  and  steady  of  hand, 

Before  the  flaming  furnaces  stand 
The  men  who  make  the  steel. 

i ^ Midst  the  sudden  sounds  of  falling  bari,’’ 

Midst  the  clang  and  bang  of  cranes  and  cars. 

Where  the  earth  beneath  them  jerks  and  jars, 

They  work  with  willing  zeal. 

They  meet  each  task  as  they  meet  each  day, 

Ready  to  labor  and  full  of  play  ; 

Their  faces  arc  grimy,  their  hearts  are  gay, 

There  is  sense  in  the  songs  they  sing  ; 

While  stooped  like  priests  at  the  holy  mass, 

In  the  beaming  light  of  the  lurid  gas, 

Their  jet-black  shadows  each  other  pass, 

And  their  hammers  loudly  ring. 


. % 

* 


22 


What  do  they  see  through  the  furnace  door, 

From  which  the  dazzling  white  lights  pour? 

Ah,  mcye  than  the  sizzling  liquid  ore 
I \ They  see  as  they  gaze  within ! 

The  rest  of  the'  poem  "pictures  the  visions  of  the  workers — 
visions  of  all’ the  fVit^re-^  pps  uses  of  .the  steel  they  are  mak- 
ing. These  verses  place* you  in  imagination  amid  the  sights  and 
sounds  described,  aftt?” tffeylia~*e bf  the  quality11  of  steel 

It  is  manifestly  impossihl^^Ti^'a^aftnpHlet  like  thisf  t^  cover 
the  entire  range  of  contempoi  fira  Wgro  verse  or  to 'represent  the 
work  of  all  writers  worthy  of  representation*  In  twf£e  this  number 
of  pages  it  might  be  done.  I seek^fier^'^ruyqjy  to  direct  attention  to 
this  work,  not  to  satisfy  interest.  A irtrmber  of  the  best  singers  of 
the  day  have  of  necessity  been  opiittecfc  «# 

If  one  meets  here  but  \yith  the'rhytfies  and  rhythms  and  forms, 
as  he  may  think,  which  are  faufiliy  him  in  the  poetry  of  the 
white  race,  let  him  reflect  that*  only"  ili  that  poetry  has  the  Negro 
had  an  opportunity  to  be  edu£ate$.,**  He  has  been  ’educated*  away 
irom  his  own  heritage  and  his  own’  endowments*  The  Negro’s 

»■**  . ryv  i . ' y 

Jtiative  wisdom  should  lead  him  back' to  his  natural*  f bunts  of  song. 
-Our  educational  system  should  allow’ of  and  provid^.for  this.  His 
own  .literature  in  his  schools  is  a’  reasonable  policy. 

. m ^is  Regards  the  essential  significance  of  this  poetry,  one  of  its 
mqketgp  Miss  Eva  A.  Jessye,  has  said  in  a beautiful  way  almost 
wMt-I  wish  to  say.  Her  poem  shall  therefore  conclude  this  pre- 
senta.tiq 


, • THE  SINGER 

Because  his  speech  was  blunt  and  manner  plain 
Untaught  in  subtle  phrases  of  the  wise, 

Because  the  years  of  slavery  and  pain 

Ne’er  dimmed  tl\e"  light  of  faith  within  his  eyes  ; 

Because  of  ebon  sITih  and  humble  pride, 

The  world  with  hatred  thrust  the  youth  aside. 

* * h • j y 

But  fragrance  wafts  from  every  trodden  flower, 
And  through  our  grief  we  rise  to  nobler  things, 
Within  the  heart  in  sorrow’s  darkest  hour 
A well  of  sweetness  there  unbidden  springs  ; 
Despised  of  men,  discarded  and  alone — 

The  world  of  nature  claimed  him  as  her  own 


She  taught  him  truths  that  liberate  the  soul 
From  bonds  more  galling  than  the  slaver’s  chain- 
That  manly  natures,  lily-wise,  unfold 
Amid  the  mire  of  hatred  void  of  stain  ; 

Thus  in  his  manhood,  clean,  superbly  strong, 
To  him  was  bom  the  priceless  gift  of  song. 

The  glory  of  the  sun,  the  hush  of  mom, 
Whisperings  of  tree-top  faintly  stirred. 

The  desert  silence,  wilderness  forlorn, 

Far  ocean  depths,  the  tender  lilt  of  bird  ; 

Of  hope,  despair,  he  sang,  his  melody 
The  endless  theme  of  life’s  brief  symphony. 

And  nations  marvelled  at  the  minstrel  lad, 

Who  swayed  emotions  as  his  fancy  led  ; 

With  him  they  wept,  were  melancholy,  sad  ; 

“ ’Tis  but  a cunning  jest  of  Fate,”  they  said  ; 
They  did  not  dream  in  selfish  sphere  apart 
That  song  is  but  the  essence  of  the  heart 


3 

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